


Make-Up Bout

by taichara



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 10:42:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10829631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taichara/pseuds/taichara
Summary: Sometimes it's the little things that are the really important things, especially when you've never been able to have them before.





	Make-Up Bout

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Inkyrius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkyrius/gifts).



Another day's march; another biouvac; another long evening spent setting up the camp. Surrounded by a sea of tents staked out in nice orderly rows (Frederick would accept no less), Chrom mopped at his face with his off-sleeve -- not _too_ grubbily sweat-soaked, at least -- and let the mallet in his hand dangle limply. Driving tent stakes was damned tiring once you were at it for a few hours, and even with all hands at work the sun was creeping towards the horizon already.

_I'd better mop myself off, at least, or I'll drip on the maps. Where's the time keep slipping away to, is what I'd like to know --_

"Chrom! _Chrom!_ "

Someone calling for him? No, someone almost carolling for him. Bursting with over-exuberance as it was, there was not a chance of his somehow missing _that_ summons; no more than there was a chance of his not knowing exactly who was looking for him. The faint smile that tugged at his mouth as he turned on his heel was equal parts tired, amused, and just a touch resigned.

"I'm right over here, Owain. Is something wrong?"

And for a single heartbeat, Chrom thought there really _was_ something wrong; Owain was splattered with mud and bits of grass from crown to foot, limping slightly, and had the distinct air of a man unfairly put-upon.

"Only if we're counting the ignominy of my sword hand turned to the ignoble labour of excavating latrine pits! Frederick knows not what forces he trifles with, I swear he doesn't! ... But that's not it. It's -- ah --"

The faint smile was threatening to be anything but faint by this point. Chrom couldn't help himself, having heard off and on the entire evening about the 'pit-digging contest'.

_I suppose Inigo won this round._

_Poor Frederick, he's probably beside himself -- but it gets the work done!_

\-- But the humorous moment passed while his nephew fumbled after words and Chrom wished heartily for that bath, or at the least for an answer to this mystery, and then the bath. Owain danced his weight from one foot to the other, his expression suddenly one of such earnest awkwardness that the last shred of amusement evaporated from Chrom's thoughts. A stab of concern lanced into his vitals, and he moved a step closer to the fidgeting Owain.

"Are you certain there's nothing ..."

"Can I -- I'd like to spar with you!"

... Well, that was unexpected. Chrom stopped short, blinking, and Owain kept right on going, words tumbling over themselves in a rush.

"I mean, if you aren't busy with tactical meetings, and you probably want to clean up some and I _probably_ need to get on that myself first, but -- but, yeah. I'd like to spar. Ah -- if you're willing?"

_... Huh._

No theatrics. No grandiose declarations of heroism, no exclamations about barely-controlled mysterious dire 'powers'. Not that Chrom was nearly as bothered by Owain's antics as half the army expected him to be -- he knew coping mechanisms when he saw them -- but the sudden absence was notable. And maybe, just maybe, very telling indeed. He swung his mallet a little, as if testing the weight, and cocked his head questioningly.

"Not right here in the middle of the biouvac, I assume."

Owain actually snorted.

"Of course not! We'd need a proper dueling ring, even if it's just marked out with twigs in the dust. We deserve nothing less! ... And Mother will probably hear about it if I collapse another tent, anyway."

"That's fair. I'll tell you what, then, Owain --"

\-- Chrom whirled the mallet, smile more genuine --

"-- meet me on the west side of the camp in two marks. I hope that's more than enough for either of us to clean off the mud before we cover ourselves in more of it. Does that suit you?"

Now Owain blinked, rapidly, before fairly beaming with startled glee.

"By my heroic destiny, I'll be there _on_ the mark!"

-*-

Perhaps putting off the night's strategic meetings to chase his nephew around a sparring ring -- if a patch of trampled ground marked out with stones and random deadfall be called a 'ring' -- was a touch irresponsible.

Perhaps electing to spar by no light save that of the moon and a half-dozen lanterns haphazardly hung from a few trees bordered on ridiculously risky.

Perhaps wearing each other to ribbons with the clash of swords and the whistling of near-misses through the night wind was a damn fool thing to be doing when the morning could bring _real_ battle.

Perhaps all these things. 

But Chrom -- as he weaved out of Owain's path, lunging to scissor his blade against his nephew's to tangle and foul his strike -- discovered quickly that he didn't regret one moment. Owain fought with a fierce intensity that surprised him, his face a mix of determination and a strange emotion Chrom couldn't quite name, and Chrom was more than happy to oblige him if this one bout was really, truly so important ...

... Until a lantern flickered in an errant breeze, and they stumbled in near-unison as the sudden lessening of the light took them both off balance. Owain staggered sidewise three steps before collapsing on his backside, Chrom was barely a breath behind him, and for a long, long moment there was nothing but silence.

Then Owain snickered.

Then actually _giggled_.

And then he was roaring with laughter, sword abandoned to the dust while he shook helplessly, arms wrapped around his middle while he laughed til the tears came and only broke the pose to wave feebly at his uncle that no, no, everything was fine --

Chrom wasn't entirely convinced, but waited for Owain to collect himself anyway. It didn't take as long as he expected, at least; wiping away tears of mirth, Owain was grinning at him.

"Oh, oh, that was _grand_. Perfect, even. Only the mighty blows of nature itself can stop us! But what a cunning plan of yours, Uncle, if plan that was and not Providence itself intervening to keep me from loosing my dread powers on you --"

The grin softened; and -- were those a few fresher tears creeping in?

"-- And it's everything I always hoped for. Thank you, Uncle Chrom. No, seriously. I mean it."

It was weirdly flattering, and weirdly disconcerting, and Chrom couldn't shake the suspicion that there was something Owain wasn't saying. He narrowed his eyes, studied his nephew's face.

"You're welcome, of course, and if you want another match -- in better conditions, maybe? -- I'm more than happy to oblige when we're not in combat conditions. But ... 'everything you always hoped for'? Just this? Owain ..."

"No, you see? All this --"

Flinging his arm in one all-encompassing arc, Owain took in everything: ring, stones, lanterns, Chrom. Himself. The hint of new tears still threatened.

"-- I never had the chance before. We never did cross swords, not for fun, not for anything. It was ... it was all you could do to give Lucina lessons. You know, forms, stances, the like. Mundane things. After the- after you were injured, you didn't spar. I heard the stories but I never got to _see_."

'Didn't spar'. Chrom could hear what Owain avoided saying as clearly as if it were whispered in his ear: 'Couldn't'. Lucina had hinted more than once about a crippling injury, with no details; now it was, apparently, confirmed.

But it didn't _matter_ , damn it.

That was the future; _a_ future. More the point, it was a future that Chrom denied with every fibre of his being. Shaking his head, he climbed to his feet, and offered Owain a hand up.

"Then we've got a lot of falling over in the breeze to catch up on, I'd say."

Owain took the offered hand, squeezed it once as he scrambled to his feet. Chrom chuckled once, wryly.

"Come on, let's get back to camp and get cleaned up. Again.   
"And tomorrow I'm not letting you off the hook because of a wayward lantern!"


End file.
